


The Brave Ones

by Elysium (Elysium66)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Comedy, F/M, Halloween, Romance, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 18:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2516981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elysium66/pseuds/Elysium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione learns that there might be the odd occasion when it is actually worth losing out to Draco Malfoy. That doesn't mean that she plans to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Brave Ones

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the dmhghalloween exchange. The recipient was alovestori and my prompt was cemetery.

Logically, she knew she shouldn’t have risen to his bait. And if logic, which ordinarily she placed a rather high value on, had been ruling her head at the time, she wouldn’t have been here. In a cemetery. On Halloween.   
  
Hermione cast her hyper-alert gaze in a sweeping glance around the general vicinity. Dark shapes cast in shadows from the trees danced across the stone and grass, playing tricks on her mind. If it had been any old cemetery, she might have been fine. As it was, she presently stood in the grounds of the single most haunted dwelling in all of England. So it was fair to say that, witch or not, she was utterly terrified.   
  
It all started because she had been arguing with Malfoy last week about the fact that she was afraid of very few things; a comment which he vehemently disagreed with. He accused her of relying on the old cliché of Gryffindor bravery, which he said was a total cop-out. Nobody was  _that_  brave, apparently. Well, she was. She’d faced all manner of terrifying things in her time. Granted, those were life or death situations in which there was no time to be fearful, but she wasn’t very well going to point this out to him.   
  
He dearly loved to win an argument, and she felt rather strongly about not letting that happen.   
  
So in order to solve their very serious debate, he had suggested a test of her mettle, so to speak. That had been singularly unappealing, as she knew quite well she wasn’t entirely fearless at all. Just thinking about that horrifying three-headed dog in her first year, and its very great determination to eat her, still brought chills to her spine.   
  
Naturally, however, she’d picked up the gauntlet and waved it around like a badge of honour. Whatever challenge he threw down, she could never pass up. It was like some sort of debilitating illness, her need to prove him wrong. Ginny had even suggested seeing a healer about it on one notable occasion.   
  
Granted, the need to be proven correct wasn’t a Malfoy-specific thing. She truthfully hated  _anyone_  showing her up; the latent need to prove herself hadn’t quite died after Hogwarts. Perhaps it was due to all of his snarky comments and derisive little remarks all her life, but Malfoy was the one she absolutely had to prove wrong. And she was nothing if not consistent.  
  
Although, she had to admit, it wasn’t quite so easy now as it had been when they were younger and he was  _infinitely_  more obnoxious. Back then, he didn’t have an informed opinion about anything. It was all just regurgitated propaganda. That had changed. And so had the quality of their arguments.  
  
After all, when she argued with Ron, it was out of frustration and she wanted nothing more than to storm out of the room. With Malfoy, she had a disturbing tendency toward physically leaping on him. Early on in the piece, she’d been convinced her intention was to clobber him, but the fact that they usually ended up in a tangle of limbs and breathlessness suggested otherwise. He clearly suffered the same strange medical ailment. Alarmingly, given the frequency of their arguments, a rather concerning pattern had formed.  
  
It was all chemical, that much she had determined. Because all rational thought clearly left her on each of those occasions. And Hermione had  _always_  let logic and reason dictate her actions. She could only suppose that the fair-haired man drove her so completely insane that she lost her head entirely. And crazy people were wont to do crazy things. Like kissing Draco Malfoy.  
  
And that was, in her humble opinion, about as crazy as crazy could get.   
  
This was all by the by, really, because she should never have agreed to let him try to prove her wrong in this particular instance. When he had suggested as much, mere days ago, while they were sitting in her office, him sprawled on a chair and distracting her from her work, she should have turned him down flat. But there was a delicious sort of intrigue always involved in her battles with him, and that rebellious part of her never failed to flare to the surface at the suggestion he might uncover any kind of chink in her armour.  
  
Silly, really. But she was only human, despite what her friends thought of her ability to compartmentalise.   
  
“Name your terms,” she’d said, with fierce determination. The grin which had unfurled across his pristine features, combined with the softly spoken suggestion of debauchery he whispered in her ear had  _definitely_  made her blush.   
  
It made her tingle too, though. All the way down to her toes. If there was one thing that Draco Malfoy had taught her from their interludes, it was that sometimes it paid to come out the loser. That didn’t necessarily mean she ever had any intention of letting him best her.  
  
He’d gazed across at her with clear grey eyes through the careless strands of his pale gleaming hair, and told her all about his plans for her. Schooling her expression and trying valiantly not to squirm obviously in her seat had been rather difficult. There was clearly something chronically wrong with her because those  _plans_  had held a certain appeal.   
  
She’d pushed back her shoulders, the picture of haughty self-righteousness, and told him, in no uncertain terms, that he would lose that wager. And if he did, as she firmly believed, he would have to attend the benefit she was throwing for the Formerly Enslaved House-Elves Project. When she’d first told him that she expected him to show up and make a hefty donation, which he could most assuredly afford, he’d mocked her mercilessly. Well, she had every intention of making him swallow his words.   
  
That was how she’d come to be here, on All Hallows’ Eve, in the Field of Lost Souls. The small cemetery was located just near the border of Scotland. It was a Muggle cemetery which was said to be haunted by the restless spirits of its residents. Hermione had pretty much grown up all through her schooling years with ghosts aimlessly floating about the corridors. Those were sentient ghosts, and harmless ones at that.   
  
She knew enough about spirits to know they weren’t all quite so charming. And frankly, even if she did have a wand and, in reality, could probably defend herself easily against any danger, it wasn’t so much what a sinister spirit could  _do_  that sent shivers down spines. It was entirely the fact that they might be there, watching, that did the trick.  
  
Creepy buggers, they were.   
  
Malfoy had told her that when he was younger, he’d been in a similar situation, encouraged by friends and his excessive self-confidence to attempt spending a night on the grounds of the cemetery. Naturally, he hadn’t lasted the whole night, but when Hermione tried to wheedle out of him the exact amount of time he’d lasted, he’d kept curiously tight-lipped.  
  
She had a sneaking suspicion it hadn’t been very long at all.   
  
A sinister whooshing sound to her left called all of Hermione’s senses to the present. Her avid gaze snapped around, taking in the shadows and any sign of movement. She was located in the very centre of the burial grounds, and although she knew that Malfoy was out there somewhere and watching her, it provided little comfort.   
  
The chilled night air bit at her cheeks, the harsh wind pushing and pulling at the heavy drape of her cloak. She stood perfectly still, wand gripped fiercely in her hand. Strictly speaking, she wasn’t supposed to use magic around here, given that it was just outside a small Muggle town. And as a Ministry employee, it wouldn’t do to be seen breaking the rules she should be upholding.   
  
An hour suddenly felt like a very long time to spend lurking in a haunted graveyard. She suddenly wished very much that they had made a totally different arrangement. One in which she got what she wanted, and he got what he wanted – which she wanted herself anyway. The problem, of course, was that they kept circling the issue. It was easy to fall together in a tangle of limbs and tingling mouths when there was a reason for it, an excuse. Like rage being mistaken for lust. That was an excuse surely; it happened to lots of other people. Granted, before Malfoy, it had never happened to her.   
  
They spent a curious amount of time together for two people who vehemently claimed they weren’t  _together_. It was the complicated sort of relationship Hermione had never found herself in before. She supposed they were friends, of a sort, but in a way that was very unlike her other friendships. She liked to hear Malfoy’s opinion of things, even though consciously she knew that each time she sought it, she’d wish she hadn’t.   
  
Ginny had informed her, quite knowledgably, that Hermione and Malfoy were what was termed  _friends with benefits_. Hermione had always considered their strange situation to be something more akin to an accident. In any case, over the past few years, since their graduation from Hogwarts and the close of the war, everyone had fallen into something of a rhythm. It was a silent but mutual agreement by all to try and forget the horrors of what had happened and move on.   
  
She couldn’t deny that it was hard at times to completely forget who he had been – because that boy was still an essential part of who he was to this day. But amid his less than lovely qualities, there were a few which had ensnared her fascination. He was just so very different to herself and the people she knew.   
  
He worked in International Magical Cooperation, despite being the most uncooperative individual she’d ever encountered. They had constantly bumped into each other at the Ministry, even though he had absolutely no reason to be in the same place she was. Between work hours and his constant presence at Ministry-run events, it had made bumping into him almost impossible to avoid. And at some point along the way, she’d stopped trying.   
  
Perhaps it was because she’d realised he enjoyed baiting her so much, that he insisted on seeking her out to do so. Or maybe it was the fact that she found herself so exhilarated and full of adrenaline after arguing with him, that the rest of her work day was unbelievably productive. Either way, each little interaction was somehow exciting. And bookworm or not, she’d become accustomed to a certain amount of excitement in her life.   
  
In any case, that was then. And it seemed to stretch back much farther than the two years over which their strange relationship had developed. Between now and then, she’d sampled all sorts of kisses from him. Heart-stopping ones that made her knees embarrassingly shaky. Fierce ones that left her lips tender. And the occasional soft ones: sweet and gentle and confusing. Those ones were the ones she liked best, purely because they indulged a certain secret idea that she buried deep within.  
  
The idea of a time when perhaps they wouldn’t need excuses and wagers and arguments in order to kiss. In order to do anything, really. But whenever she did indulge in such highfaluting fantasies, that shattering thing called logic pulled her back to earth.   
  
A world in which someone like herself, and someone like Malfoy, could have anything akin to a normal relationship, was not a place in which she lived. It was too hard, too laden with history. While that sort of history could easily get lost in the moment, it didn’t make for much potential in the long run.   
  
So she focused on being the friends-ish thing they were, and tried not to think about the fact that, truthfully, she wasn’t that sort of a girl. She was a monogamist, through and through.   
  
A strange sound carried on the back of the wind and caused Hermione to whip out her wand on instinct. It was like a voice, a whisper. She swallowed and cast her gaze frantically about. The shadows were moving and it was not in rhythm with the swaying of branches in the trees.   
  
She backed up automatically then, and tripped on a rather large rock, only managing to steady herself with a palm gripping the upper edge of a headstone. Her heart was thudding uncontrollably and the oxygen she pulled in made her dizzy. It was rather terrifying. She didn’t want to back down, though. A quick glance at her wrist watch told her she’d only been standing there ten minutes.   
  
It just wouldn’t do to run screaming after so short a space of time. She took a deep breath, her palm pressed against her chest, and she tried valiantly not to focus on the sounds around her.   
  
This wasn’t very effective, because she was now looking at the various headstones and starting to wonder just what those people had been like in life. And, naturally, just what they were like in death, just on the off chance that amongst them had been a homicidal maniac. She wanted to be prepared.   
  
Never let it be said that Hermione Granger ever disregarded all of the possible outcomes.   
  
The downy hair on the back of her neck stood on end when the sound of high pitched laughter rang like a whistle from behind her. She could  _feel_  eyes watching her. It was like a dense cloak upon her skin. Fear. Her spine stiffened and she tried to resist the urge to spin around. If there was something there, she  _really_  did not want to see it.   
  
Despite this logic, she cast a quick, cursory glance over her shoulder. There was nothing there.   
  
It was ridiculous, she thought, the lengths that she would go to. She could be murdered by psychotic ghosts in a Muggle graveyard near Scotland, all because of some need to prove herself fearless. Well, right now she had plenty of fear. And a small measure of irritation, towards herself and Malfoy. But given that she was the one about to be scared witless, it only seemed appropriate that she direct it all towards him.  
  
And she would, if she ended up murdered by whatever was lurking in the dark, or from her heart giving out. And if that  _did_  happen, then she could guarantee she’d haunt Draco Malfoy for the rest of his life.   
  
Icy breath rushed against her nape and it threw her over the edge. She jumped back and screamed involuntarily, her wand held aloft. And then the shadows stilled and the cool air seemed to thaw. Laughter, a deeper sound, rang out now. And she turned toward the culprit. He emerged all pale and lit up in the surrounding darkness. And he was smirking.  
  
She narrowed her eyes at him, thankful that her breathing had started to even out.  
  
“Quite pleasant out here, isn’t it?” he asked politely. The damnable smirk was growing ever more prominent.   
  
“Delightful,” she muttered. She was going to have to kill him. She’d bury him in the very graveyard in which they stood. It was, to her mind, the only appropriate punishment.   
  
“So you admit it, then?” Draco grinned triumphantly at her in a way that was very close to provoking her, which of course, he knew.  _Git_. He walked fully out of the darkness and came to stand by her.  
  
“I admit nothing; you cheated, so it doesn’t count!”   
  
“Does too… I don’t think I’ve seen anyone more terrified in my life. Couldn’t wait to throw up the red sparks.”  
  
Hermione glared at him because, truthfully, he was right. She’d been absolutely shaking. And she still was, come to think of it, regardless of the fact that she was no longer alone. No matter that she knew all of the antics had actually been courtesy of Malfoy and not anything more sinister. This didn’t stop the shivers that kept skittering down her spine each time the wind whispered around them. The Field of Lost Souls was unquestionably the most eerie place she’d ever encountered.   
  
“Fine, I concede. This place  _is_  rather terrifying. That doesn’t mean you’re not a total prat for doing all of that.” She huffed and wrapped her arms more tightly around herself. She focused on the pale light of his face in the surrounding darkness. It was far easier to find distraction in its plains than to look more closely at her surroundings.   
  
“Now, now. Granger, we had a deal.” What should have been a rather lecherous grin unfurled across his features. It did funny things to her insides. But, as she had come to realise of late, this sort of reaction was one that no amount of medical assistance could help her with.  
  
She just found him far too…  _appealing_ … for her own good. And still, to this day, she wasn’t entirely sure why. If she asked him the question, he’d expound upon his virtues for hours. Redeeming qualities he did have, but virtues? She rather thought that was pushing the point.   
  
Playing the prude card was hardly going to work with him anyway, given her unfortunate propensity for kissing him at inappropriate moments. Kissing him  _at all_ , really. He just had a certain something that kept reeling her in, against her better judgement. No doubt, if she’d been to see a Muggle psychologist, she’d have been diagnosed with some deep-rooted complex that went back to her childhood. It would be terribly convenient to blame the attraction on something like that.  
  
The truth was that Draco Malfoy wasn’t like any of the other men she’d been with, or even considered in a mildly romantic manner. In fact, given their volatile history, he really was one of the last people she should be thinking about, in general. She could only suppose that her attraction to him had nothing to do with logic. A trick of fate, perhaps.   
  
His sly grin tugged at her stomach, leaving her a little breathless. Whatever the reason or the cause, she never quite had full control of her faculties when he was around. And Hermione was very accustomed to control. Her relationship with Malfoy was all aggravation and tingly sensation; nothing logical or rational about it at all. Perhaps, after all those years of placing her faith in what she could see and taste and know, it was time to take the leap. She was, after all, a Gryffindor.   
  
“I am  _not_  doing that here.” He grinned wider still.  
  
“But you will do it? Much more adventurous than I’d ever thought, Granger. I’m quite impressed.” Her heart skittered when he tugged her closer. He was warm, despite the chill biting at their cheeks. She wanted to sink right into him. “Actually, I’ve changed my mind about the terms though…”  
  
She cast her gaze up towards his, uncertain. “How so?”  
  
“You look disappointed.” He grinned. “Have no fear… I want  _that_ , too. But I want an admission more.”  
  
“An admission?” She swallowed visibly. That sounded rather ominous.  
  
He tugged her closer, and her senses snapped within at the clean scent of him around her. His nose brushed her temple and his mouth lowered to tickle the outer shell of her ear.  
  
“That you  _like_  me.”   
  
_Oh_. She squirmed a little uncomfortably before responding. “Uh… you know I find you… attractive. That whole…thing… on the living room floor would have been a bit, well, awkward otherwise.”  
  
His grip tightened and his laughter ghosted against her ear. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. I know you want me, it’s kind of transparent.” She made to huff indignantly at that, but he laughed again. “But you can’t bear to admit to all and sundry that you actually _like_  me… as a person.”  
  
She looked up at him, her wide gaze clashing with his. “You’re not entirely horrible,” she whispered.  
  
His mouth quirked in response. “And there are brief moments when you aren’t completely overbearing… or at least, when I don’t mind it.”  
  
“I’m not—”  
  
She didn’t get to finish her objection to that – she was  _not_  overbearing – because he leaned down to press his mouth to hers. She knew relief when his cool lips brushed in the barest whisper against her own. Whatever the reason for her susceptibility to him, she was going to enjoy it. Her arms braced around his neck as she enjoyed the texture of his mouth, brushing kisses against her cheek.   
  
It was  _nice_ , she thought. Soft and gentle and sweet. Not words she’d usually use to describe a man who, though in possession of some inherently good qualities, was still wont to be an arse much of the time. In fact, she was just delighting in this new kiss, different to the others she had collected, when she felt a distinct pressure on her rear.   
  
“Bit frisky, aren’t you?” she muttered, cheeks rather pink.  
  
His fair lashes lifted so that she could see the question in his piercing gaze. “Trust me when I say, I’d rather be friskier.”  
  
“But your hand is on my…” She focused, then, on the fact that his hands were presently accounted for, resting on her hips. Her gaze flew to his, wide-eyed and matching.  
  
“Well, whatever friskiness you’re referring to… it’s not bloody coming from me.” He pulled her against his solid frame and they both cast weary glances around the open cemetery. Definitely creepy, she thought.  
  
“Right then! Time to go,” she whispered fairly urgently. “Uh… my flat is… if you—”  
  
“Ah… something we finally agree on.” She could feel the smirk radiating through his body just before the tug at the back of her navel signalled time to leave.   
  
He was right, though. And she hated it when he was right, but truth be told, she  _did_  rather like him.


End file.
